As he passed lamp after lamp in his progress along the street, I could note their style and character. A pair of dark grey trousers without stripes; a cloak; a glazed hat--all after a fashion worn by the ordinary _commerciantes_ of the place. I fancied I could perceive a certain shabbiness about them--perhaps not so much that, as a threadbareness-- the evidence of long wear: for the materials were of a costly kind. The cloak was of best broadcloth--the fabric of Spain; while the hat was encircled by a bullion band, that, before getting tarnished by the touch of time, must have shone splendidly enough. These observations were not made without motive. I drew from them a series of deductions. One, that could not be avoided: that my rival, instead of being rich, was in the opposite condition of life--perhaps penniless? I was confirmed in this conjecture, as I saw him stop before the door of an humble one-storied dwelling, in a street of corresponding pretensions; thoroughly convinced of it as he lifted the latch with a readiness that betokened it to be his home, and, without speaking to any one, stepped inside. The circumstances were conclusive; he was not one of the "ricos" of the place. It explained the clandestine correspondence, and the caution observed by her who flung down the _billetita_. Instead of being solaced by the thought, it only increased my bitterness of spirit. I should have been better pleased to have seen my rival surrounded by splendour. A love unattracted by this must be indeed disinterested--without the possibility of being displaced. No chance to supplant the lover who is loved for himself. I did not harbour a hope. A slight incident had given me the clue to a romantic tale. Mercedes Villa-Senor, daughter of one of the richest men in the place--inhabiting one of its grandest mansions--in secret correspondence with a man wearing a threadbare coat, having his home in one of the lowliest dwellings to be found in the City of the Angels! I was not much surprised at the discovery. I knew it to be one of the "Cosas de Mexico." But the knowledge did not lessen my chagrin. CHAPTER NINE. MUERA EL AMERICANO! Like a thief skulking after the unsuspecting pedestrian, on whom he intends to practise his professional skill, so did I follow Francisco. Absorbed in the earnestness of my purpose, I did not observe three genuine thieves, who were skulking after me. I am scarce exact in my nomenclature. They were not thieves, but _picarones-a-pied_--footpads. My first acquaintance with these gentry was now to be made. As already said, I was not aware that any one was imitating me, in the somewhat disreputable _role_ I was playing. After watching my rival disappear within his doorway, I remained for some seconds in the street--undecided which way to go. I had done with "querido Francisco;" and intended to return to my quarters.